All dogs like having a job, and Rainbow was no exception.
I had my heart set on teaching her to be an agility dog, but I soon learned
that her forte was skijoring. I wrote this essay in February, 2002.

I entered the Butte, Montana animal shelter and
glanced at the barking dog on my left. She weighed approximately 45 pounds
and was mostly black with white front legs and a white chest. Yoda-like
ears contributed to a comical appearance, as did a long pink tongue, a
black face mask, gold eye dots, and a partial white ruff. She was built
to run; she had long legs, a lengthy back, and a narrow midsection.

The front desk clerk noted that the eight-month
old female, who’d been picked up two days previously, on May 1,
was slated to be destroyed. For the next 2 ½ days my partner Pete
and I weighed the pros and cons of acquiring a young dog. The pros finally
outweighed the cons by one item: I will have company on my daily training
runs. Up until her self-elected retirement, I’d been running twice-weekly
with Bootleg, now age 16. And so, an hour before the inmate was to be
put down, Pete and I returned to the shelter, paid the adoption fees,
and snapped a lead on the crossbred we named Rainbow.

Rainbow had an excellent indoor persona. However,
her outside persona left a great deal to be desired. The day after acquiring
her, I set out on a three-mile run. After cresting a rise that afforded
one a view of the Pintler and Tobacco Ranges, I undid the leash snap.
Rainbow raced down, then up the banks of a steep, scree-covered gully.
In seconds, the renegade and the object of her desire, a bicyclist, had
disappeared around a bend. Four hours later, Rainbow returned home. She
drank two bowls of water, collapsed on the living room floor, and fell
asleep.

I decided that when outside, the dog that the veterinarian
had nicknamed Knucklehead, would have to remain on-leash. This was easier
said than done, for she repeatedly lunged at bicyclists, runners, four-wheelers,
dirt-bikers, and mule deer. I soon grew weary of running with her because
she repeatedly pulled me off-stride.

“Maybe in a few years she’ll mellow
out,” I said to Pete.

“Maybe so,” he replied. However, I could
tell by his expression that he was doubtful. That September, Pete came
up with a solution, which was to incorporate running jouring into my exercise
routine. Rainbow backed away when I showed her the harness, waist band,
and nylon rope. However, anticipation replaced concern once the harness
was in place. We stepped outside. Ears back, shoulders down, Rainbow made
a beeline for the nearby Carcass Hills, called such because it’s
a repository for area hunters’ discarded elk carcasses.

After figuring out that “ea-s-s-y” meant
go slow and that “go, go, go” meant go fast, Rainbow involved
herself in the decision-making process. She was fearless on the uphill,
and cautious on the downhill stretches. Since she didn’t pull hard,
I soon discarded the heavy metal quick release. Of course, Rainbow didn’t
immediately became an ideal run jouring dog. I had to teach her some of
the commands, gee, haw, wait, on trail, and go leave it included. The
latter required the most work because there were plenty of distractions,
rabbits, squirrels, cats, and large game included.

A month after our initial outing, I hit a patch
of black ice and fell. Rainbow waited for me to climb back onto my feet.
Dazed, I examined my scraped elbow and rubbed my now-sore hip. We slowly
returned home. Rainbow, seemingly concerned, stuck by my side. This accident
called for another all-important equipment change—screwing hexhead
sheet metal screws into the bottoms of my running shoes gave me much-needed
traction.

By late November we were averaging 60-70 miles a
week. In southwest Montana, high elevations, steep climbs, inclement weather,
and uneven terrain make for tough going. This failed to phase Rainbow,
who rose to every challenge.

I was so impressed with my dog’s progress
that I entered us both in the 24th Annual Cheetah Herder Snow Joke Half-Marathon,
a late February run that takes approximately 175 runners around Seeley
Lake, Montana. I’d compete in the women’s 40-49 age group,
as I’d done for the past three years. And Rainbow, a first-time
entrant, would compete in the Canine Division. My decision was easy to
rationalize. Rainbow had motivated me to resume serious training. And
so, yes, I figured that she deserved a shot at the first-place dog prize—a
much coveted soup bone.

It snowed early on the morning of the run, but by
11 a.m., the official starting time, the cloud cover had lifted. Rainbow
barked when race organizer Pat Cafferty reviewed the race rules. Chagrined,
I hustled us to the rear of the pack.

The starting gun startled Rainbow who leapt sideways
and entangled the line around a signpost. A laughing race official assisted
me as I unhooked the dog, unwound the line from the post, and refastened
it to her harness. Once freed, the excited dog sprinted in the direction
of the front runners. We turned onto the edge of the main thoroughfare,
a north/south highway. My focus was now on keeping Rainbow out of the
way of the masses. Nevertheless, I stayed attuned to an ongoing stream
of comments that went something like this:

“Hey, that’s a sled dog!”

“Look at that animal pull!”

“That runner’s got an advantage.”

“I want a dog like that!”

Rainbow and I slowed to a lope at the two-mile point.
A snow squall at the four-mile mark slowed us down further. An ongoing
semi swooshed past. I removed my mittens and wiped my lenses with my ungloved
index finger.

At Mile Six, we turned onto the residential road
that encircles Seeley Lake. Traffic was no longer an issue; I relaxed
my shoulders and lengthened my stride.

“Let’s go,” I said to Rainbow.

Rainbow picked up her pace.

We finished the way we’d started, strong.
Rainbow, seeing Pete on the far side of the finish line, veered in his
direction. I followed suit. Pete unhooked the long line and fastened the
leash to her collar.

“How’d you do?” Pete asked.

I deferred to the dog, saying that she’d kept
the line taut, ignored the wildlife, and stayed on-course. We three watched
as the remaining dogs and runners crossed the finish line. The fray included
three energetic Akitas and a spent Golden Retriever.

I finished second in my age division. And Rainbow
finished fourth in hers.

The question that many people have since asked me
is, why did I wait another year before attempting to teach Rainbow to
ski jour? My response was that I didn’t think she’d be up
to the task. I figured that to excel in this area, a dog would have to
weigh at least 75 lbs. Plus, I added, ski jouring wouldn’t provide
the likes of me with the much-needed exercise fix. I turned out to be
wrong on both counts.

We eventually moved to Palmer, Alaska. Looking out
the window at the first heavy snowfall, I found myself in the throes of
a dilemma. I wanted to go skiing. But I didn’t want to leave Rainbow
behind.

I agreed with Pete, that there was no harm in giving
ski jouring a try. Of course, there were a few last minute equipment changes—I
put the quick release back on the line, thinking that I could more easily
let her go if we got entangled. I also grabbed my non-metal-edged skis.
This, I figured, would prevent injury should I inadvertently run Rainbow
down. I next slipped a pair of dog booties, a doggie water dish, water,
and treats into my ski jouring fanny pack.

As had become habit, Rainbow took off at a lope,
then alternated running and trotting. Soon enough, we were moving at a
slow pace, down a local snowmobiling trail.

Within minutes, I was convinced that I was right—Rainbow
didn’t have it in her to be a ski jouring dog. She pulled to the
side of the trail and danced on the end of a loose line. Gritting my teeth,
I herringboned up the incline. Once at the top, the reason for her lack
of focus made itself apparent – a moose and her calf meandered along
the far side of the ridge.

When the moose disappeared, Rainbow got down to
work. She began to respond to commands, kept the line taut, and settled
into maintaining a steady pace. When I fell, she halted and waited for
me get up.

The previously foreseen problem still remained—Rainbow
didn’t appear to have it in her to be a power puller. But, as I
soon realized, this wasn’t what I was looking for. In essence, I’d
gotten what I, a recreational (and admittedly somewhat timid) cross-country
skier most needed, a companion that would continue to motivate me to get
out for exercise. And Rainbow was getting the same.

As Rainbow’s matured, she’s become an
even better exercise companion. With age, she’s beginning to take
her job more seriously. She’s crabbing less. She’s also begun
to make a distinction between the degree of tightness needed for run and
ski jouring. And, most importantly, she’s acting as an exemplary
example for the new neighbor dog Annie, a pup who is now learning the
running and ski jouring ropes.